Dale Field looks a picture, underneath a cloudless sky,
As trees caressed by summer winds, sway pleasing to the eye,
With hallowed turf quite pristine, neatly cut, and gently rolled,
It should perform with pace and bounce, like
wickets did of old.

The cricket match is under way, as batsmen walk to square,
Like ancient knights at battle, in their white
protective wear,
On popping crease a hole they dig, with heel and willow bat,
As groundsmen cringe to view such sights,
disparaging of that.

There's Tommo crouching in the slips, aggression in his eyes,
Hands tugging at his flannels that adorn those
massive thighs,
Then opening bowler Simon sends a ball that nips a bit
An outside edge deflects it to the trusty gloves of Kit.

Hands shoot up all round the pitch, "How's that"? The players shout,
A finger pointing skywards from the umpire gives him out,
The fielders run together in victorious delight,
To watch the opening batsman walk dejectedly from sight.

Then suddenly from nowhere dismal clouds appear in view,
Encroaching over every part of sky that once was blue,
The scourge of cricket lovers starts, a gentle, pit-a pat,
And both teams run for shelter under umpire
Ashley's hat.

The Phantom Scribbler 1999